Chapter 2
It’s eight. I know it’s eight because I’ve checked the clock a dozen times in the past half hour.
Even though Gerald said “around eight,” I still think she should appear in the kitchen at eight sharp.
However, that’s on me. I have a complicated relationship with whole numbers and time.
Everything I do is carefully calculated for the best timing.
I’m prepared as well. Showered, shaved, dressed in jeans and a black polo that hugs my body a bit but not too much.
I may have also pressed my ear to the door of the spare bedroom, hoping I’d hear the water running in the shower or her bare feet padding across the hardwood floors.
I heard sniffing under the door, which I presume is the dog.
Footsteps sound over the staircase, and I hustle into my previously staged place in the kitchen, at the counter pouring another cup of coffee. I decided “Would you like a cup of coffee?” is the best conversation starter. I’ll get to learn how my wife takes coffee. I bet it’s with sugar and milk.
I’m facing the cupboards and feel eyes on me.
Clearing my throat, I pour a cup. “Would you like cup of coffee?” I ask, already pouring it.
When no answer comes, I glance at the entrance to the kitchen.
A massive gray dog with sad eyes stares at me.
A white heart-shaped patch at the center of his chest makes me smile. Cute. I crouch. “Come here, boy.”
The dog wags his tail and approaches on his belly, gaze on the floor. He’s practically crawling to me, whining too, and stops not quite at my feet so I have to stretch to pet his head. He winces as I touch him. “It’s okay, boy.”
Under my fingertips, the hair around his neck feels coarse. I check the back of his neck and see scars. Pointy marks, maybe from one of those collars that stab dogs. Frowning, I lift the dog’s head so I can look him in the eyes. He’s avoiding my gaze.
I have a feeling humans haven’t treated the dog well in the past. He might be a rescue.
Bare feet come into my view, and I drag my eyes up my wife’s legs until I reach pink pajama shorts and a matching top stretching over her perky tits, making her nipples pop. I want to flick them.
Benedetta crosses her arms over her chest, and I stand. Her mussed hair is piled up in a messy ponytail. She wears no makeup, and her face is pale, her eyes, naturally brown, hazel in the morning.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” I say back.
Her feet move and draw my gaze. She curls her toes. Her nails are painted pink, and she wears a golden toe ring. She’s so fucking young. Nineteen to my thirty-eight.
“Is today Saturday?” she asks.
“Friday.”
She nods, not moving into the kitchen. The dog’s also still at my feet, staring at my shoes.
“I came back a day early,” I explain.
She nods.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” I lift the already poured cup. “I made some.” I don’t exactly know how much ground coffee goes into any of the three machines Mika womans in the kitchen, but soon enough, I’ll find out if my measurement was any good.
I miss my housekeeper already, and I’m gonna be sorry I made her take a leave. Gerald got a temp to cover during Mika’s absence, but still, Mika knows my routine. And likely my wife’s by now.
Benedetta takes reluctant steps toward the counter.
“I don’t bite,” I say. Well, I do bite, just not in the current context.
A smile tugs on the corner of her lips as I reach for sugar. I put two spoonfuls in for me and pour milk, raising an eyebrow in question at her.
She shakes her head. “Black, please.”
I slide the cup to her and head for my place at the table. My wife’s walking out of the kitchen.
“Benedetta,” I say. “Sit with me.”
She takes a seat across from me, keeping her eyes on the cup, gripping it for dear life. I glance at the dog, who’s tucked his tail and is slowly crawling under the table.
“I haven’t given you any reason to fear me,” I snap.
“You and I both know I’m not the villain of your story.
” Her father called me in the middle of the night, begging me to marry her.
Apparently, a member of another Italian family asked for her, and her father couldn’t bring himself to give Benedetta to a man on his fourth wife. The other three died in “accidents.”
To make it appear real and as if I asked for her, I paid him five million for my bride.
He signed a partnership with me, bringing me all the legal businesses he owns.
Some I’ll keep. The others I’ll sell. As for my wife, he forwarded me a picture of her, and I said yes.
Any man would. Benedetta is exceptionally beautiful, with huge dark eyes and a waterfall of chestnut hair. I’m keeping her.
Her gaze lifts. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t sir me. You’re my wife.”
She nods, eyes wide. Benedetta’s long, pale, slender neck allows me to see her hammering pulse.
I nod back. We’re in agreement. “How did you find the house?”
She smiles. “It’s nice.”
“And the staff?”
“They’re also nice.”
“And my brother?”
She blushes. “He’s nice.”
I narrow my eyes when she looks away. Tapping the table, I say. “On a scale of one to ten, how nice do you find my brother?”
Benedetta’s about to have a panic attack.
I glance under the table, and I think the dog peed. He’s shaking at her feet.
For fuck’s sake. “I am forward and direct, and dislike misunderstandings and having things left unsaid,” I say. “But I don’t hit women or dogs.”
She swallows, her face as red as a tomato.
I push onward. “Is the dog a rescue?”
“Yes.”
“Does he need therapy or something like that?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I think he just needs some attention. And maybe some love.”
“I will arrange therapy for the dog. I read about this a while back. Anyway, consider it done.”
“Yes, sir.”
Smiling, I bare my teeth. “Hudson.”
“Hudson,” she whispers.
Christ, she turns me on. I want to wrap my arms around her submissive nature while I make her body bend to my will.
I move the chair back and duck under the table, then whistle at the dog and tap my knee. He’s wary of me, but I keep making kissing noises, and it takes maybe ten minutes of my life to get the dog to crawl to me.
Grunting, I pick him up and settle him on my lap. Now, this dog is about seventy pounds, and I think it’s still a puppy. Benedetta watches me the way a curious dove right outside the window might watch people moving inside the house.
“What breed is he?” I ask.
“Neapolitan Mastiff.”
“Has the driver taken you to the vet?” I chuckle, then self-correct. “Excuse me. Has Jerry driven you and the dog to the vet?”
“Not yet.”
“Schedule the vet for next week.”
“They’re booked. I tried.”
“We’ll call another vet, then.”
“This one came recommended.”
“By whom?”
“Bishop.”
I grit my teeth and change the subject. “Mika is off. We’re having a temp starting next week.”
“’Kay,” Benedetta says. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes. You?”
She nods. “Do you like eggs?”
“I like pussy, Benedetta. That’s what I like. Though I can’t seem to get any now that I’m married and my wife is sleeping in the spare bedroom. Why aren’t you sleeping in our bedroom?”
The dog lays his massive head on my shoulder, and I hug the poor big thing, patting him on the back.
“I wasn’t sure if that’s what you wanted.”
“You’re my wife. You sleep in my bedroom. Unless you don’t want to.”
“We got married, and you left the next day.”
“I had a prior arrangement. I explained, and you understood. What changed?”
She smiles. “Nothing changed.”
I frown. “Point taken.” We’re still strangers.
She clears her throat. “You didn’t call.”
“Did you want me to call?”
She shrugs. “I don’t want to inconvenience you. I know you paid for me. I know about Morisseti asking for me. I’m not a real wife to you, so whatever. It’s a nice home with nice people, and I have a dog.”
“What about me?” I ask.
She tilts her head. “Well, you don’t have to come home if you don’t want to. Maybe you want to get a full-time mistress or something like that.”
“Is this your vision of our marriage?”
She shrugs again. “There’s nothing to our marriage, sir. You don’t have to pretend you like me or want me.”
Jesus. I put the dog on the floor and wash my hands. I open a cupboard looking for pans. See plates. Open another one. Close it. “No idea where the pans are,” I announce. “Can you feed me?”
Benedetta smiles again. “I can.” She walks to the other end of the kitchen and finds pans, spatula, eggs, and whatever else, and all in record time.
Looks to me like the lady knows her kitchen better than she knows her husband.
Good for the kitchen. Not so good for the marriage. But I’m working on it.
Benedetta looks up and opens her mouth.
“Scrambled,” I say.
“Me too,” she says. And would you look at that. We do have something in common. Scrambled eggs. I’ll take it. One hour at a time.